Pacifying the Spirit with Whiskey

Mr. Larson's WhiskeyMr. Lawson died in his sleep,
In his flat, along a LoLo street.
Wife moved out,
Sold the place quick in a real estate drought.
Friend moved in,
Seeing potential in the old bin.
Reno’d the place,
To rid the seventies vibe of the space:
New floors, new bath,
New paint, new splash.
Closets were lacking,
But nothing like garbage bags for packing;
‘Sides, that’s what the boyfriend
Could do for his part, and get on an IKEA bend.

Just about, when all was complete,
Old Mr. Lawson decided the new owner to greet.

For a lark
He made smoke come out with nary a spark,
But enough to cause fright,
For my friend to pull the alarm at night,
Half toasted from a bottle of gin,
Split with friends and many a grin.
The building emptied out,
Each sleepy face in a pout,
Watching as the fire brigade,
Into the flat did stray,
To look for a fire,
That, in actuality, had not transpired.
My friend, hair like a rat race,
and makeup running down her face,
Hid behind the door
As North Van’s bravest glared at her for this 2am chore.
Mr. Lawson chuckled in delight,
At the chaos caused by his smoky slight.

He next caused the bathroom to flood,
Warped the new floors down to the studs.
(The friend had barely time to use the seat,
Before the toilet was hoisted out by its feet)
For the next four weeks,
She had live like a freak,
A half life, in half a flat,
While restoration tried to put it all back.
And just when it was about to be done,
Bathroom working on a dry run,
The tiler said he’d do the floors,
But the artless ass,
Had no class,
When laying down the wood,
So my friend fired him as fast as she could,
And find a replacement to finish the work,
So that she could finally experience the flat’s perks.

Mr. Lawson didn’t want to let her off that easy,
So tweaked the brass in her vanity,
And caused another minor flood,
And my friend to curse “This is CRUD!
I’ve had enough,
Lay on you daft old Scottish MacDuff,
I’ll play you at your own bluff.”
And with a brilliant flash of inspiration,
To pacify the old goat, with a bit of imagination,
She poured him a glass of scotch,
Single malt, top notch,
And left it for the old git,
To sip at his leisure, and hopefully the place to quit.

She told me this morning the ice cubes were eaten;
So maybe, finally, the ghost of old Lawson, has finally been beaten.


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